Homicide Articles
Various articles from the Homicide Tribute on Maryland's Sunspot News Site
'Homicide' fittingly goes out the way it
came in
Last Call: Thorne, Belzer, McElduff
Television: After 6 1/2 years, some clues remain hidden. But
echoes of the past in the last episode magnify the deep and
moving relationships the series has found.
By David Zurawik
Sun Television Critic
The final moments of "Homicide:
Life on the Street" find
Detectives Meldrick Lewis
(Clark Johnson) and Rene
Sheppard (Michael Michele) in an
alley in the dark searching for
clues to the murder of a man
whose body lays nearby.
Lewis probes a clump of weeds
with the toe of his shoe and the
beam of his flashlight. "If I
could just find this thing, I could
go home," he says, not explaining
what exactly the "thing" is.
"You won't find what you're looking for," Sheppard says
dismissively, shining her flashlight on the other side of the
alley.
"What? Why not," an irritated Lewis asks.
"It's a mystery. Life is a mystery. Just accept it," she says, as
the camera shifts to an overhead shot that shows the two of
them walking alone, with their flashlight beams looking small and
hopeless against the surrounding darkness.
"Yeah? Well, that's what's wrong with this job," Lewis says. "It
ain't got nothing to do with life."
Those are the last words we'll ever hear from the flawed and
fabulous characters of "Homicide: Life on the Street," whose
final episode airs tonight. The echoes of language and
existential sensibility to the pilot 6 1/2 years ago are
unmistakable. And, if you are anything like me, they will launch
you on a melancholy roller coaster ride back through the series
and then rock you with the realization that "Homicide" is really,
truly, finally gone.
Last week, I picked tonight's finale, "Forgive Us Our
Trespasses," as one of the 10 best of the 122 episodes in the
"Homicide" canon. As I sat down to watch for a second time last
night, I feared I had picked as much with my heart as my head,
wanting to look forward to one last great episode in the
immediate wake of the cancellation news.
This isn't a great-great episode, but it is resonant, moving and,
most of all, representative of a cultural process that
"Homicide" illustrated as well as any series in TV history: the
struggle and inevitable compromise necessary to create art in a
medium designed primarily for commerce.
When Tom Fontana, the series' Emmy
Award-winning executive producer,
wrote tonight's episode, he didn't
know it would be the last. But he knew
it might be. So, as he explained to The
Sun, he layered it with as much series' closure as he could, just
in case NBC pulled the plug.
"Forgive Us Our Trespasses" has many "Homicide" trademarks,
as well as a storyline with Detective Tim Bayliss (Kyle Secor)
that takes the series back to the Ground Zero of its moral
center, a location it strayed from this season with the loss of
Bayliss' partner, Detective Frank Pembleton (Andre Braugher).
It starts with one of the stylistic innovations that "Homicide"
pioneered under executive producer Barry Levinson: a series of
elongated jump cuts. Bayliss and Sheppard are repeatedly
shown climbing the steps of the Clarence M. Mitchell Jr.
Courthouse with different dates printed at the bottom of each
repeat. The technique not only compresses time and gets us
instantly into the story, but it also suggests the Sisyphus-like
repetition and futility of their jobs.
That futility blasts right through Bayliss' usual Zen-boy
detachment when Luke Ryland (Benjamin Busch), the man who
broadcast the murder of two women on the Internet, goes free
because of mistakes made in a collapsing legal system. Bayliss
takes his anger out on State's Attorney Ed Danvers (Zeljko
Ivanek), which leads to a career crisis.
As Bayliss searches his soul, his relationship with Pembleton and
the inviolate moral vision at the series core is brought sharply
into focus.
"Seven years ago, I walked in here with a file box and a lot of
idealism," Bayliss tells Lt. Al Giardello (Yaphet Kotto). "I had a
clear vision of justice and morality. And whatever has happened
to me, around me, I still have that."
Bayliss wrestles with death, God, justice, vengeance, crime and
punishment. He wishes aloud that Pembleton was there for
guidance. Viewers will see Pembleton in montage, but nothing
summons his ghost like Bayliss saying in a soft voice, "Yeah, I
loved him."
Secor has several great moments, including a scene with
Detective John Munch (Richard Belzer) that ends as Bayliss
reaches out to touch Munch in a way you can almost feel right
through the TV screen.
Lighter side not forgotten
The lighter side of "Homicide" -- its screwy, almost
Beckett-esque sense of comedy -- is also there. Lewis and
Detective Paul Falsone (Jon Seda) have one of those in-the-car
discussions that Levinson seems to have invented. They are
talking about Munch's upcoming wedding to Billie Lou McCoy
(Ellen McElduff) and the possibility of any two people finding
what Falsone calls "wedded bliss."
"They got as much chance surviving a nuclear holocaust as they
do just staying married," Lewis says.
The conversation sent me back through my "Homicide" library
looking for "The Gas Man," an episode that ended the series'
third season on May 5, 1995. The bulk of that hour took place in
a car with two loser ex-cons played by Bruno Kirby and Richard
Edson driving around, sharing their crackpot philosophies of life
while trying to find a way to kill Pembleton for putting them in
prison.
The Levinson-directed episode typifies the risks "Homicide"
took in storytelling. The hour is seen through the eyes of the
bad guys, not the cops, and the in-car conversations are as funny
as anything in such Levinson feature films as "Tin Men" or
"Diner."
The entire episode played to a disco soundtrack, with Kirby's
character saying that he found the secret to life while listening
to disco music in prison: "Like the song says, do a little dance,
make a little love, get down tonight, get down tonight. Think
about it, my friend, it's all right there in the song."
Searching
I have been replaying "Homicide" tapes like "The Gas Man" for
almost a week now. I tell myself I have to do it for background,
but I think there's something else going on. I've reached the
point where -- like the character in Dennis Potter's "The
Singing Detective" -- pieces of scenes, memories, real-life
interviews and snatches of dialogue from the series are playing
in a stream-of-consciousness loop in my head.
I started out searching for one crystal-clear, distilled image on
which I would end this piece. Like Lewis in the alley, I felt if I
could just find that thing, I could lay "Homicide" to rest in my
mind. I was certain it would somehow feature Pembleton, the
nexus of race and morality in "Homicide."
Maybe, it would be Pembleton in his dress blues standing at
attention on the steps of the precinct house on Thames Street
as a hearse passes by with the body of Detective Steve
Crosetti (Jon Polito) from the 1994 episode titled "Crosetti."
Pembleton's pose is an act of conscience done in defiance of
bureaucratic policy, which seeks to distance the department
from the suicide.
Or, maybe it would be the scene from the start of the
1996-1997 season when Pembleton, former alpha dog of the
squad room, comes back to work so shattered by a stroke that
he can't even handle placing the office lunch order, because he
can't remember how to spell pizza. Heroes are not supposed to
be laid this shuffle-step, stammer-talk low in American TV.
This is the stuff of Greek tragedy or Shakespeare.
A delicious mix
But, in the end, the scenes all merge together for me:
Pembleton struck down by the gods plays straight into Bruno
Kirby's character who just wants to get down, get down tonight.
And, maybe, that's the answer, the truth that Levinson and
Fontana captured in this Peabody Award-winning series. Maybe
we all live at the intersection of the cosmic and the comic --
that place we first found ourselves on the night of Jan. 31,
1993, when this gift from the gods, "Homicide: Life on the
Street," debuted after the Super Bowl:
Lewis and Crosetti are looking in a dark alley for clues.
"If I could just find this damn thing, I could go home," Lewis
says.
"Life is a mystery. Accept it," Crosetti tells him.
"You're in your own world, Crosetti," Lewis says dismissively.
"The quest is what matters," Crosetti answers, ignoring the
insult. "Looking, not finding. I read about it in this book."
"Now, since when did you ever read a book?" Lewis says.
"I read this book, an excerpt of this book."
"Now, see, that's what I'm saying, man. You said you read this
book, but you didn't read nothing but an excerpt of this book."
"It says you never really find what you're looking for, because
the whole point is looking for it. So, if you find it, it defeats its
own purpose," Crosetti says, lighting a cigarette.
"You're in your own little world, Crosetti, because there ain't
no one wants to be there with you."
"You try to explain everything, you know? But there are things
you can't explain," Crosetii concludes, sounding as if he hasn't
heard a word Lewis has said.
That scene ends on the comic with the two cops shining
flashlights in each other's faces, trading ethnic insults and
threats.
Tonight's final scene ends on the cosmic.
Not a word is said as the camera shifts its point of view.
Suddenly we're looking down with omniscience on Lewis and
Sheppard searching through the hopelessly dark urban night for
the "thing" that will finally let them go "home." The thing they
will never find.
Originally published on May 21 1999
Quality loses to cheap tricks
Assessment: None of us are winners in the numbers game that
led NBC to cancel `Homicide.'
By David Zurawik
Sun Television Critic
This week, just before confirming the
cancellation of its critically acclaimed
drama "Homicide: Life on the Street,"
NBC announced that it was ordering 13
new episodes of "World's Most
Amazing Videos" for next season.
Almost everything you need to know about the network
economics responsible for the demise of "Homicide" is found in
the relationship between those two events. In some ways, it's
as simple as this: "Homicide" is expensive and "World's Most
Amazing Videos" is cheap. And cheap is getting more and more
important than quality to network television these days.
So what if "World's Most Amazing Videos," which is made by
the man who brought us "When Good Pets Go Bad," features
such great moments as an airplane mechanic being sucked into a
jet engine? So what if it is deplorable programming? The
networks say they can't afford quality drama any more.
As Stu Bloomberg, the chairman of ABC Entertainment, puts it,
"When you have a schedule that has very strong dramas that
are expensive, you need to balance that out with reality
programming that doesn't cost that much. That's how we are
trying to make the economic model work."
Scott Sassa, president of NBC West Coast and one of the men
who pulled the plug on "Homicide," said much the same thing in
defending his network's decision this spring to start airing such
specials as "The Truth About UFOs." In the new economic
environment of increased competition, you have to find less
costly ways to program, and "clearly reality specials are doing
well," he said.
Not to oversimplify. It's not a straight swap: "World's Most
Amazing Videos" for "Homicide." You probably won't see
videotape of animals be-
ing injured, violent car crashes and natural disasters when you
tune to NBC Friday nights at 10 next fall.
When NBC announces its new schedule Monday in New York, the
time slot "Homicide" held since 1995 will probably be taken
over by another drama. Three new ones are said to have made
the schedule -- one each from Dick Wolf of "Law & Order," John
Wells of "ER" and Aaron Sorkin of "Sports Night."
Respectively, they deal with a police sex crimes unit, cops and
medical workers, and people working in the west wing of the
White House.
But whichever replaces "Homicide" it will be cheaper. Tom
Fontana, the Emmy-award-winning producer of "Homicide," said
that NBC told him it was not canceling the series for creative
reasons. The network was satisfied with the show in that
regard.
But Fontana said the network told him it found a way to
program the time period next fall for $200,000 less per hour
than it was paying for "Homicide." Multiply that by 22 weeks,
and you have $4.4 million, which was deemed too much to pay for
a critically acclaimed, socially relevant, racially enlightened
series that finishes third in its time period behind the
newsmagazine "20/20" on ABC and the bone head "Nash
Bridges" on CBS.
Fontana said NBC told him there were "other factors involved."
But they were all economic, "such as the number of episodes we
had produced [122] and whether it would be cost effective, in
terms of potential sales in syndication, to make more," Fontana
said.
As Fontana's partner, Barry Levinson, put it, "In the end, it all
comes down to numbers."
However, there are others numbers to count besides ratings
figures and advertising dollars. If you count hours next fall, you
will find fewer hours of quality drama and more hours of
so-called "reality" specials featuring simulated UFO abductions,
dangerous car chases, horrible accidents and animal abuse.
Even if series like "Homicide" aren't directly replaced by
reality specials, the ordering of more shows for series like
"World's Most Amazing Videos" this spring means the networks
are planning to use more of them to pre-empt lower-rated
dramas next year during key ratings periods. The benefits of
such a strategy are two-fold: You order fewer dramas, which
keeps down costs of production, and you often artificially
inflate ratings with the sensationalistic specials.
It's a win-win strategy to the network way of thinking. But it's
lose-lose for the audience, which is now offered more versions
of "Worlds Most Amazing Videos" and fewer chances to see the
likes of a "Homicide: Life on the Street."
Originally published on May 15 1999
'Homicide': the best of the best
These 10 shows demonstrate what television can do in gifted
hands, and don't let the elitists tell you it isn't art.
By David Zurawik and Chris Kaltenbach
Sun television writers
Go back through the 122 episodes of the just-canceled
"Homicide: Life on the Street," and you will be astonished by
how many great ones there were. "Homicide" might have a
higher batting average of best episodes than any series this
side of "Law & Order." And the highs on "Homicide" were
definitely higher. There's plenty of room for disagreement, and
we could easily include another dozen, but here are our Top 10
picks.
"Gone for Goode" (aired Jan. 31, 1993)
Crafting a TV pilot is as intricate a process of distillation and
vision as any form this side of haiku. "Gone for Goode" is not
just a well-crafted pilot, it is one of the best in the history of
the medium. It introduced a sprawling cast of complicated
characters and made us want to come back and visit this world
again. Paul Attanasio did a splendid job of adapting and creating
from David Simon's book, "Homicide: A Year on the Killing
Streets," but Barry Levinson's direction is even better.
Levinson won an Emmy for it. He should have won two. -- D.Z.
"Three Men and Adena" (March 3, 1993)
This show won executive producer Tom Fontana an Emmy for
writing. He should have won three. Fontana came to TV from
the theater, and his playwriting prowess infuses every minute
of this landmark hour. It introduced the interrogation room
that came to be known as "The Box." It put Andre Braugher's
Detective Frank Pembleton in that box with a suspect (Moses
Gunn), another cop (Kyle Secor) and a few sticks of
battle-scarred, municipal-green furniture and somehow
managed to show us the human soul and the heart of darkness.
The next time it plays on Court TV, tape "Three Men and
Adena." And the next time some elitist know-it-all tells you TV
has nothing to do with art, play the tape. -- D.Z.
"Bop Gun" (Jan. 6, 1994)
It is hard to believe this is a first script for any writer, but
that's the case as Simon teamed up with David Mills, a friend
since their days together at the University of Maryland. The
newbie screenwriters got some help from Fontana, who wrote
the storyline of an Iowa tourist whose wife is killed when the
couple and their children wander off their tour of Camden
Yards. Robin Williams was brilliant as the tourist, and the
direction by Stephen Gyllenhaal ("Paris Trout") was as good as
anything he's done on the big screen. The episode also made you
stop and listen to the music -- really listen to the music -- under
the direction of Chris Tergesen. For fun, the next time you
view it, count the Parliament-Funkadelic references. Mills, who
wrote a book last year about the group, is a P-Funkaholic. Mills
and Simon got an Emmy nomination. They deserved to win. --
D.Z.
"A Many Splendored Thing" (Jan. 27, 1994)
NBC told the producers to include more "upbeat storylines and
romance," and this is what they gave their Peacock bosses:
Bayliss and Pembleton visiting the S&M scene with Mr. Tim
donning leather to cruise the neon river of sin known as The
Block. The producers also gave them Detective Kay Howard
(Melissa Leo) in a relationship with Ed Danvers (Zeljko Ivanek).
Oh, sure, that's a match made in heaven. But there's also
Detective Stan Bolander (Ned Beatty) and the much younger
Peabody student (Julianna Margulies), and somehow it is as
touching a love story as you could want. Now if only the couple
could lose Munch (Richard Belzer), who keeps following them
around philosophizing about the impossibility of love. John
McNaughton ("Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer") directed. --
D.Z.
"Heartbeat" (Dec. 8, 1995)
Possibly Munch's finest hour. In an homage to hometown
favorite Edgar Allan Poe, the detectives find a body that had
been sealed years ago behind a brick wall. Munch suspects
small-time drug dealer Joseph Cardero (Kevin Conway), and
works at convincing him the man's heart still beats under a
floor somewhere. Turns out he might be right. Directed by
actor Bruno Kirby ("City Slickers," "When Harry Met Sally"). --
C.K.
"Prison Riot" (Oct. 18, 1996)
Bayliss is the only one who seems to care when a pair of
murders take place during a riot at the state pen. The
astonishingly talented Charles S. Dutton ("Roc") shines as Elijah
Sanborn, an inmate who knows what happened, but wants no part
of the police investigation -- until Bayliss uses one of Sanborn's
kids to gain some leverage. Wonderfully acted, and as a bonus,
the prison scenario lets us catch up with some of the crooks the
cops have collared over the past 55 episodes. TV Guide chose
this as one of the 100 greatest TV episodes of all time; it's
easy to understand why. -- C.K.
"The Subway" (Dec. 5, 1997)
As he has done so often in "The Box" Pembleton is once again
asked to plumb the depths of a man's soul. Only this time, it's
not to extract a confession, but to keep a guy alive. Vincent
D'Onofrio is John Lange, a Baltimore businessman who falls
beneath a moving subway train. Or maybe he was pushed?
Whatever the circumstances, one thing's almost certain: as
soon as they get him out from under that subway car he's going
to die. And the man charged with keeping him calm (while also
trying to piece together what happened) is Pembleton, who
wrestles with his own emotions as well as Lange's. James
Yoshimura won a Peabody for writing this episode, which was
also featured on a PBS profile of the series. Dramas don't come
any better than this. -- C.K.
"Fallen Heroes" (May 1 and May 8, 1998)
The Luther Mahoney saga draws to a close. The final count:
scores of drug dealers and their minions dead (not to mention
Luther); three cops shot (Bayliss, Gharty and Ballard); and two
cops off the force (Kellerman, forced to pay for taking justice
into his own hands, and Pembleton, who realizes he can never
look at police work the same way again). True, "Homicide" was
never the same after Braugher left the show, but you can't
minimize the loss of Reed Diamond's Kellerman, the brash cop
always struggling to do the right thing, and rarely succeeding. A
lot of viewers could identify with his aspirations and his
frustrations. -- C.K.
"Sideshow" (Feb. 19, 1999)
One of several crossovers between "Homicide" and "Law &
Order," the two finest drama series on television. A murder
case with ties to New York and Baltimore attracts the
attention of independent counsel William Dell (a wonderfully
oily George Hearn). Dell doesn't give a hoot about somebody
getting murdered; he'd much rather use whatever dirt he can
gather to smear the administration (context: Bill Clinton and
Kenneth Starr). It's always fun watching Munch and Jerry
Orbach's Lenny Briscoe trade quips, but the real treat here is
watching Sam Waterston's Jack McCoy and Zeljko Ivanek's Ed
Flanders team up against Dell, who treats them like a pair of
bothersome gnats. -- C.K.
"Forgive Us Our Trespasses" (May 21, 1999)
You haven't seen this one yet. This is the final episode, which
will air Friday night. Fontana wrote the script, and, without
knowing if the series would be canceled, did a masterly job of
providing more closure than a typical season finale. The Bayliss
storyline takes us back to Ground Zero, the moral center of
the series that he populated as Pembleton's partner. It's
wonderful. But, most of all, pay attention to the language of the
final scene and the way it echoes the language of the opening of
the pilot. Those echoes and the final overhead shot of two
detectives searching an alley in the night for something that
seems impossible to find offer more insight into the human
condition than we have any right to expect from TV. Thanks for
the closure, Tom. -- D.Z.
Originally published on 05/16/1999
A death in the family
'Shellshocked.' Like being hit wih a punch.' It's a blow to Fells
Point.' - Baltimoreans mourn the end of 'Homicide.'
Chris Kaltenbach
Sun Staff
"I'm speechless. I'm bummed," said Tim Lee, 22, who works in
his family's dry cleaning business on Boston Street in Canton
and enjoyed chatting with two of the show's writers when they
came in with their dry cleaning.
"I grew up in Baltimore and I'm pretty proud of the city. To
see something that puts Baltimore on Hollywood's map, and to
have that canceled is pretty sad. How many shows can you sit
there and go, 'Oh my God, I know that place?' "
"I don't want to talk about it," said a woman answering phones
on the "Homicide" set, at Fells Point's old recreation pier. "I'm
a little shellshocked. Not that I should be."
True enough. Signs that the end were coming have certainly
been out there. NBC, which stuck with the show for seven
seasons despite lukewarm ratings, has been treating it like an
unwanted stepchild of late, pre-empting it for "Law & Order"
reruns, switching episodes at the last minute, not revealing its
fate until a few days before the announcement of the
network's fall lineup.
"In the end, everything is only about numbers," executive
producer Barry Levinson said. "I think we had some very strong
supporters in the past, like [former president of NBC
Entertainment] Warren Littlefield, who really stood behind the
show. We're not a Top-10 show, but we do provide [decent]
numbers. But once you pull out a little bit of support for the
show, and you don't really want to advertise it with any sort of
aggressiveness, that tells you something to begin with."
Still, all the foreshadowing in the world wouldn't have made the
reality any easier to take. At least four crew members from
the show were walking around the set yesterday, all of them
too emotional to talk or even give their names.
Across the street at the Daily Grind, the Fells Point coffee bar
cast member Reed Diamond once said made the best cappuccino
in Baltimore, co-managers Kelly Rogers and Steve Rowell
contemplated life without their most famous customers.
"I'm really sorry to see them go," said Rowell, who
appropriately enough was dressed in black. "I made a lot of
friends as a result of that show being here."
"That show brought a lot of visitors into this area who normally
wouldn't show up here," said Rogers.
Both agreed the cast and crew were a delight to have around,
normal people who blended in with the regulars -- even if they
did have to deal with the occasional autograph seeker.
"Andre [Braugher] always used to order a double mocha
chocolatta ya-ya," said Rowell, admitting he could name the
drink, but not spell it. Kyle Secor would order a double soy hot
chocolate ("He was into health stuff," Rogers said). Ned
Beatty, Rowell recalled with a look of disgust, ingested a
steady diet of peanut butter, jelly and mayonnaise sandwiches.
Pat Moran, who started her showbiz career as a crony of John
Waters and last year won an Emmy for her work as the show's
casting director, was in tears yesterday. Word of NBC's
decision, she said, "was like being hit with a punch.
"It was the darling of the critics, but it wasn't stupid
enough to be the darling of the masses," she said. "They'll
probably put 'America's Stupidest Videos' in its spot."
Added former Circuit Court Judge Elsbeth Bothe, "I think it's
a shame because it does have a sophistication and attraction. I
loved watching Baltimore, all the identifiable places, the street
names, the characters. These were real people in the detective
department."
Although it didn't always paint Baltimore in the best light -- it
was, after all, about people being killed -- "Homicide" and Charm
City were the best of friends.
"All the people associated with the show have been wonderful
to Baltimore," said Mayor Kurt L. Schmoke, who appeared on
"Homicide" a few times himself. "They have encouraged
students in our schools interested in dramatic arts. They have
made themselves available for community events and they
produced a show of outstanding quality. I'm really sorry the
show wasn't renewed."
"It's a real blow when you lose a show of this magnitude, with
the economic impact it's had in the community and the impact
that the cast and crew have had," said Michael B. Styer,
director of the Maryland Office of Film. "The bright side is
they've been so successful in terms of production that
Baltimore and Maryland have to be considered seriously for
doing productions. Not every area of the country can support
the complete shooting of a series. We've got the crew base.
Ninety percent of the people who work on the show come from
Maryland."
Richard C. "Mike" Lewin, Maryland's secretary of business and
economic development, agreed. "This was one of the best
returns on investment we've had in the department of business
and economic development. We spent less than $1 million in the
Maryland film office and got more than $75 million back in
economic development."
No part of Baltimore will feel the loss of the show more than
Fells Point. Most of "Homicide" was filmed there, and workers
and residents had come to enjoy having a little East Coast
version of Hollywood in their midst.
While some residents will no doubt rejoice that parking spaces
should become less scarce -- bumper stickers proclaiming
"Homicide: Life Without Parking" could often be found
throughout the community -- many lamented the show's demise.
"It's a big disappointment and it's a blow to Fells Point," said
Dan Schiavone, artistic director of the Fells Point Creative
Alliance. They've been very good friends and dear supporters.
We're going to miss them. For us, it was like having another
group of artists in the neighborhood. It brought national
attention to the area."
City homicide detectives are known for being tight-lipped, and
they maintained their stoic silence, even while lamenting the
demise of the show that put them in the national spotlight.
"They are all very sad to see 'Homicide' going off the air," said
Dara Munoz, a member of the department's legal team, who was
visiting the homicide unit yesterday. "They say it was as
realistic as a TV show could be. Unfortunately, homicides still
persist in the city."
Robert W. Weinhold Jr., the Police Department's chief
spokesman, said the show "has always been a topic of discussion
wherever our officers traveled throughout the country. I'm not
so sure a TV program can truly reflect the hard work and
commitment detectives have on both a professional and
personal level, but the show made an honest effort to do that."
Added Captain Gary D'Addario, who went from being a
character in David Simon's book to technical adviser and
occasional actor on the show, "I really thought the network
might give it a different time slot, which I firmly believe would
have improved the ratings. But it was great while it lasted. It
was one of the highlights of my life."
For David Burman, who was out walking his dog yesterday
afternoon, losing "Homicide" means losing the best business
partner he ever had. Just two months ago, Burman bought the
Waterfront, the Fells Point bar that doubles on the show as the
watering hole owned by detectives Munch (Richard Belzer) and
Lewis (Clark Johnson).
"It's a big loss for the community as a whole, not just me," he
said as Penny pulled her owner toward the playground
"Homicide" helped build just off Thames Street. "People from
all over the world would walk into the bar and talk about how
this was the bar from 'Homicide.' "
Echoing the thoughts of many Baltimoreans, he added of the
show's cast and crew, "They were just people, as far as I was
concerned. I'm going to miss them."
Staff writers Marego Athans, Peter Hermann, Michael Ollove
and M. Dion Thompson contributed to this story.
Originally published on May 14 1999
A show too good for TV . . .
`Homicide': Great series put Baltimore on map for reasons
that bring cold comfort.
ALL good things must end, even "Homicide: Life on the Street."
The television drama set here has been canceled for next
season by NBC. That's a business, not artistic, decision and an
inevitable one. The 122nd episode, Friday, is to be the last
ever.
Seven seasons is not bad for a series that won with critical
acclaim. Along the way, it did wonderful things. The hand-held
camera brought a gritty realism.
This was notable fiction based on a depressing nonfiction book,
"Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets," by then-Sun
reporter David Simon. The writing, acting and directing set
standards. It strengthened the small screen's pretensions at
high art and remains the best cop show made.
Beyond that, "Homicide" has been full of insider, cultist
comments about Baltimore, truths and willful mistakes. It did
not just use Baltimore. It moved in. Cast and crew became
valuable citizens and local celebrities, even some who are
national celebrities. Fells Point developed a niche tourism,
attracting fans from afar looking for the scenes portrayed.
That's because anyone watching the show felt it just had to be
real, and might be found.
The show that made Baltimore proud also made it wince. Who
wants to be known as the murder capital of the nation, even
when there is some truth to it? "Homicide" showed a squalid
and evil side of human nature and, therefore, of Baltimore.
But Baltimore is a big town and can take it. "Homicide" did
wonderful things for this city's economy and even in a strange
way its self-esteem. It's sad to see "Homicide" end.
. . . and too bad
Jenny Jones: Jury reflected growing frustration with
irresponsible entertainment.
AJURY recently sent a message about responsibility: It
hammered Jenny Jones' tawdry talk show with a $25 million
judgment in a civil lawsuit.
Jurors sympathized with the family of a man who was murdered
after he revealed on Ms. Jones' show that he harbored a secret
love for a male friend. He was shot days later by the humiliated
friend.
The First Amendment offers Ms. Jones and her ilk necessary --
but not limitless -- protection. Such shows should not
misrepresent topics, violate rights of privacy or goad
participants into doing harm to others for entertainment.
Ms. Jones apologized for Scott Amedure's death at age 32, but
argued that she could not have foreseen Jonathan Schmitz's
rage following the March 1995 show. Whether that defense
ultimately prevail in an appeals court, it is losing in the court of
public opinion.
Originally published on May 15 1999
Not a Pretty Picture
Casting unlikely faces has helped make 'Homicide' a hit -- and
made Pat Moran an unlikely success.
View the pictures HERE
By Michael Ollove
Sun staff
If you're a fat actor, "Homicide:
Life on the Street" is the
television program for you. The
same goes for actors who are
gap-toothed, beaky, acne-scarred
or skanky in a hundred other
ways that would exclude them
from the vast majority of shows
produced in Hollywood.
In that regard, "Homicide" is the
Statue of Liberty of TV
programs. Give me your
blemished, your pockmarked,
your hairless heads yearning to
be seen on network television.
Another pretty face is the last
thing the casting office at "Homicide" wants, unless it belongs
to an actor good enough to overcome pleasing looks.
The purveyor of this counter-intuitive casting philosophy is a
volcanic, 57-year-old Baltimore landmark named Pat Moran. In
almost anyone's imagination, she's the antithesis of Hollywood
convention, a pumpkin-shaped figure with neon-bright red hair
and owlish spectacles, who learned her craft working in -- where
else? -- John Waters' scorched-earth brand of filmmaking.
Whether it was there or elsewhere, admirers say she acquired
perfect pitch for the look and sound of real Baltimore.
Moran is what is often referred to as a "character," a
description she wastes no time living up to. She begins many
workdays by warning her two devoted assistants that they'd
better not get on her nerves, especially if it happens to be
sunny and mild outside, weather that she -- a close relative of
the Addams Family -- considers "hateful." Brightness alone
would keep her from ever living in Los Angeles.
Other aspects of L.A. are also anathema to her. For instance,
next to being judgmental, her least favorite human
characteristic is phoniness. Her No. 1 admonition to her two
children was typically straightforward: "Don't be a jerk," only
she didn't use the word jerk.
Between audition sessions in her "Homicide" office on the old
Recreation Pier, Moran barks at her 127-pound Doberman, Baby:
"Don't talk to me. DO NOT TALK TO ME." Having no intention
of crossing her mistress, Baby curls up for the day on her dog
pad under a window overlooking the harbor. Every so often, the
voice of Jim Finnerty, executive director of "Homicide," booms
up the winding staircase to her office. "Be nice!" he yells, advice
Moran claims to have no intention of following.
Everyone participates in this charade, pretending not to know
that Moran is the softest touch in the greater metropolitan
area. She seems willing to overlook their lapses in acting.
And acting is something she knows something about, as the
Emmy statue on her desk attests. She won it last year, the
third in a row she'd been nominated as TV's top casting
director for her work on "Homicide."
If she has not gone underestimated
in Hollywood, neither has she gone
underappreciated at home. If
Maryland has become a regular
setting for Hollywood films -- and it
has to a surprising degree -- one of
the reasons is Moran. During the past
decade, most feature films shot in
Maryland have carried her name in
the credits. She has been on board
for every Waters movie, as well as
films as diverse as "Washington
Square," "Species 2," "Enemy of the
State" and the recently completed
"Runaway Bride."
Moran keeps proving to producers and
directors that she can cast most of
their actors right here, saving them
the enormous expense of flying
talent in from New York and L.A. At
the state film office, Moran is called
the "Mother Superior of Maryland
Film," an irony not lost on a woman
who spent a lifetime denigrating her
Catholic education.
Naturally, Moran is quite popular with
the local branch of the Screen
Actors Guild. "Around here, she's the
actors' best friend," says Pat
O'Donnell, executive director for
SAG's Baltimore-Washington region.
No one is more perplexed about this
acclaim than Moran, who often says
hers is "an accidental career." The
daughter of a popular Baltimore
bandleader, she didn't hatch a dream
growing up in Catonsville and then set
about realizing it. "This isn't
something you work toward, because
you could never have had the brains
to work toward it. Cannes? An Emmy?
It's impossible."
Except that it isn't. A dream Moran
never had came true anyway. Now,
her life stands as a parable of sorts,
and it goes something like this: There
are many paths to contentment, so
why not choose the eccentric one?
It's sure to be the most
entertaining.
A BIT STRESSED OUT
It's Day 2, and "Homicide" Script
Number 21, the season's
second-to-last, hasn't landed yet in
the casting office. Moran and her
assistants, Jonah Wortman and
Jonathan Gorrie, have only seven
working days to find, audition, select
and sign all the episode's "day
players." Those are the nonregular
cast members with speaking parts.
Usually, each episode has between 10
and 20 day players. Additionally,
Moran and Co. provide as many as 150
nonspeaking extras every week.
Moran is agitated this Thursday, muttering to herself about a
headache, her "disaster of a desk," and her obligation to
entertain out-of-town guests that night. ("I gotta go home
tonight and be Suzy the cruise director," she complains.)
Apparently, she is always like this, a radiator forever blowing
off steam. "I'm nervous all the time," she says in a voice that
approximates the sound of gargling. "I like to be nervous. Only a
fool wouldn't feel stressed when you've got only seven days to
cast a show."
Jonathan and Jonah, both in their 20s, are temperamentally
Moran's polar opposites. They are mild and consoling,
counterbalances to the commotion of their boss. Equally as
important as their casting duties is their function as Moran's
human sedatives. "Should I smoke a cigarette, Jonah?" Moran, a
recent quitter, bleats several times a day as she reaches for a
pack lying on her desk.
"No, Patty-O," he says, and she doesn't.
She will not miss a deadline or a day's work, a legacy from
Grace, her late beloved mother who owned a grocery-liquor
store in Beechfield. So strong was Grace's work ethic that
when she was pregnant with Pat's younger brothers, she
arranged to deliver them on Wednesdays, the only day the
store was closed. So Pat, or anyone who works for her, isn't
going to take a day off for any reason, be it sickness or national
calamity. "I'm never not going to be here."
The script finally shows up after lunch, and Moran and Jonah
pore over it to identify the roles they must fill this week. The
episode calls for 13 guest parts. Among other characters,
Moran and her crew will have to find a Mafioso killer, a junkie
killer and a Baltimore hillbilly killer. "Homicide" will live up to
its name again.
Sometimes the script writer specifies characteristics. For the
neighbor of a murder victim: a white, male Greek-American in
his 50s. For a bank teller robbed by a drag queen: a young black
woman. Even within those specifications, Moran finds lots of
maneuvering room, and many other parts are wide open to her
imagination. So, for the part of a strip-bar manager, she thinks
she might look for older men who could play the part with the
appropriate sleaze. But she also has in mind a middle-aged
actress who could make the manager a take-no-prisoners
lesbian.
Jim Yoshimura, one of the show's senior producers, says Moran
constantly surprises and impresses him. Her imprint, he says, is
evident in every episode.
"She loves the down-and-dirty-looking people, and that serves
the show well," says Yoshimura, an Emmy-nominated writer.
"You don't get that in typical Hollywood shows. With them, it's
clean and glitzy and fresh-looking. Pat likes the gritty, guys
missing a tooth or woman with a look that is off. It's great for
the writers because it means we can write really funky parts
and know Pat is going to find the actors."
The next day, Moran roots through photos and resumes Jonah
has screened for her. Looks alone will rule many out. Too old,
too blond, not Italian enough. Too pretty. Too pretty. Too
pretty.
Acting experience is generally more important than appearance,
although Moran occasionally hires non-actors because she can't
resist their looks. That is how a church worker named Shelly
Stokes ended up with a speaking part as a neighbor of a murder
victim. She's a 350-pound, blond-haired black woman who sent
her photo into the casting office hoping to be an extra. Little
did she know Moran was a sucker for precisely her type.
As for acting credentials, Moran is especially impressed by
stage work, none more so than Shakespeare. " 'Richard III,'
'Macbeth,' " she says, perusing one actor's resume. "This guy's
got plenty of starch."
The longer the run of "Homicide" continues -- it has now
finished shooting its seventh season -- the harder Moran's job
becomes. The show has a policy against day players returning in
different roles. "Every time you hire someone, your pool is
diminished by one more good actor," she says.
By lunch, Moran has decided on the five or six actors to test
for each part. But because of the President's Day holiday, she
can't get started with auditions until Tuesday. That will leave
her four days to fill all the day player roles before cameras
start rolling on Episode 21. She's feeling a bit stressed-out.
Everything's going fine.
FAMILY AND FRIENDS
At least three or four times a day, every day, Jonah or
Jonathan answers the phone and announces to Moran, "It's
Him."
"Him" is the man who has been Moran's best friend since they
laid eyes on one another at the Flower Mart 35 years ago.
Friendship is too limp a term to describe their relationship.
Few lovers are more in sync. As Him himself says, "I don't know
how two people could be closer."
So, when John Waters calls, Moran
snatches up the phone and without any
greeting or introduction launches into
whatever topics engross them at that
instant. Today, they prattle on about
her shiny new black shoes (his
Christmas gift), his bout with the flu
and whether he should cancel a trip to
Dallas for a weekend art show (he
does) and Jerry Falwell's outing of a
Teletubby. (Moran: "It's ridiculous.
They don't even have genitals.")
Abruptly, with no sign-off of any kind,
she hangs up.
"It's an ongoing conversation in
snippets," Jonathan explains. "They'll
pick up later in the day from the
same point."
By the time she met Waters in 1964,
Moran was in her early 20s and in the
process of ending the second of two
brief marriages. This one had
produced a son, Brook. Waters was
still in high school then, though he
already had made his first film. Both
were discovering the delights of the
downtown counterculture.
Rich and poor, straight and gay, black
and white, all mixed easily and happily.
There were jazz clubs to attend and
drag shows and underground films.
And there were drugs.
Waters was already assembling the
free spirits, outcasts and
troublemakers who would be involved
in his movies for the next two
decades and beyond, including Bonnie
Pearce, Mink Stole and, of course,
Divine, the mountain of mischief who
starred in the early films, usually as
a woman. But none would be closer to
Waters than Moran. Her taste for
the outlandish matched his own, as
did her aversion to orthodoxy of any
kind. Best of all, no one was funnier.
She became a production regular on
his movies, essential as a
trouble-shooter and ambassador
between Waters and the actors. As
his budgets increased, she started
specializing in casting. To make ends
meet, she worked in the ticket
office at Center Stage. In the late
Sixties, she opened a vintage clothing
store on Read Street, where she also
sold hot dogs from a cart. That's
where she caught the eye of Chuck
Yeaton, the sweet-natured owner of
a novelty store on the same street.
Although a vegetarian, he would buy
her hot dogs as an excuse to get to
know her. Soon they were a couple,
but not before she issued a warning.
"She said that her friends were part of the package, and she
wasn't going to change them for anyone," remembers Yeaton,
now a building contractor who dabbles in antiques.
He had no problem with those conditions, and eventually they
married and settled into an exceedingly eclectic townhouse in
Mount Vernon. After three decades together, Moran still calls
him "The Boyfriend," as in "The Boyfriend sent me these roses
for Valentine's."
"He was threatened by nothing," Waters marvels, not even
when Chuck would come home to find Moran, their new baby
daughter, Greer, and Waters in bed watching movies on
television. It helped knowing that Waters was gay, Yeaton
acknowledges.
Greer, 26, and Brook, 31, whom Chuck adopted, grew up on
Waters' movie sets, coddled by the very people who played
killers, deviants and psychos in front of the camera. Divine was
Brook's godfather and Waters was Greer's.
"I thought everyone was like these people," says Brook. "To me,
they were the Brady Bunch. They were family, and I loved them.
The main thing with my mother and Divine and everyone was not
to judge people by who they are but what they do, and that
anyone who does judge people, they are the ones to worry
about."
It was an unconventional upbringing, but as Moran says, "Kids
are kids. They don't know that all families aren't like this. It
didn't hurt them. Nobody's on death row."
The kids followed their mother and godparents into the film
business. Brook is now a production designer, and Greer, a
Sarah Lawrence graduate, is production coordinator for
"Homicide."
As a family with so many gay loved ones, the Yeatons sustained
enormous losses because of AIDS. During the '80s, it seemed
as though they were attending a funeral every other month, a
reason Moran became one of the city's leading AIDS
fund-raisers. "You forgot there were other things people died
from," she says.
But there were other things. Some friends died of drugs, and,
shockingly, in 1988 Divine dropped dead of heart failure at 42.
"I'm not sure that anyone realizes what it's like to be in your
30s and 40s and have all your friends die," says Lynda Dees,
Moran's friend, lawyer and co-founder of AIDS Action
Baltimore.
Moran says the deaths made her more guarded, yet Moran
seems more open than most people her age to new friendships.
She collects new people like strays, which explains why the
Yeatons always seem to have semi-permanent houseguests.
In 1979, she got a job managing the Charles Theater, but
always a new Waters film took precedence. "The movies were
appalling to parents, critics, everyone in authority, which was
exactly what we wanted."
If the films were anarchic and silly beyond words, the making
of them was serious business. "On 'Pink Flamingos,' we worked
18 to 20 hours a day in the cold. On 'Female Trouble,' I
remember coming home to frozen pipes and sitting on the
bathroom floor sobbing and sobbing."
But it never occurred to her not to go back to work, and not
because she thought she was on some career track. "Nobody
could have thought . . . that these gutter films would lead to
something. I was doing it because I loved to. It was [Waters]. I
believed in him."
But it was leading to something, and something more than just
film openings in New York and San Francisco, more even than
screenings of Waters' films at Cannes, with the likes of Clint
Eastwood, Roman Polan-ski and Catherine Deneuve watching not
more than two rows away.
In 1987, Whoopi Goldberg's company called Moran about helping
cast the extras for "Clara's Heart," a film Goldberg was
making in Maryland. The following year, the same producer
enlisted Moran on "Her Alibi." Another Waters film,
"Cry-Baby," came next and then "Avalon," directed by Barry
Levinson.
Two years later, when Levinson was ready to try his hand at a
Baltimore-based television series for NBC, he came calling
again. Now there was no denying, even to herself, that she was
in the throes of a bona fide career.
"John Waters taught me how to do it," says Moran. "Barry
Levinson legitimized me."
MASTER AT WORK
On Tuesday and Wednesday, the waiting room to the casting
office is full of actors of all shapes, sizes, ages and races. They
sign in and collect their "sides" -- the portions of the script
they will read for Moran. They will have only a half an hour or so
to study their lines. Moran believes "cold reads" provide a
truer measure of an actor.
It's still amazing to her that someone would hire her to judge
acting talent. Viewers of early Waters films do not come away
marveling about the subtlety of the acting. "Looking at John
Waters' early work, you're going to have me pick your day
players?" she says.
But Moran is a master at providing directors with the actors
who fit their visions. "What's great about Pat is that she can
work with John and give him the actors that fit his style," says
Levinson, "and she can also give me the actors that fit my style.
Some casting directors can only cast in a certain kind of way.
Pat's adaptable."
That is one reason Levinson is
certain she will continue to
work after "Homicide" goes
off the air. She'll always be
in demand for feature films
shot in Maryland, and Moran
says she'd be willing to work
another television show as
long as it was produced on the
East Coast.
One by one, Jonah summons
the actors into Moran's
office. She greets each
warmly and directs them to
the chair facing her. She then
has them rehearse the scene
with Jonah while she watches the performance on a television
monitor. Often, she advises the actors to make their
performances less theatrical. "This is television. Your back row
is right here," she says, pointing to a camera a few feet away.
Moran says she can make a decision after listening to just
three words.
"It's all about our ears, what we hear. Do I believe what
they're saying? Acting is making someone else's words your own
and making everyone else believe it." When she's impressed,
she'll tell an actor, "I bought it."
After one rehearsal, the actors perform again, this time with
the video camera running.
When they leave, Moran and Jonah exchange observations. "He
had a great look, but the part needs a better actor," she says
of one. "She made a good adjustment," she says of another.
After a pale young actor named James Christy does an eerie,
spaced-out reading for the part of the junkie, she can hardly
contain herself, pumping a fist in the air when he leaves. "I love
that kid," she says.
Half an hour later, after watching another actor read for the
same part, she's still thinking about Christy. "After that kid,"
she says, "you better be Richard Burton."
After each day's auditions -- 45 on Tuesday and 31 Wednesday
-- Jonah copies the videotapes and sends them to the producer
and director of the episode, who make selections about which
actors should get a call-back Thursday. But Moran makes sure
everyone she liked gets invited back, too.
Theoretically, the final casting decisions rest with the
episode's producer and its guest director, but the reality is
more complicated. This week's director is an acclaimed
documentary filmmaker named Joe Berlinger, who has not done
much feature work. He shows up at the Thursday call-back
auditions along with Yoshimura and David Simon, a co-producer
of Episode 21.
All the actors for the same role -- usually now down to four or
five actors per part -- perform one after another, and then
there's a discussion of who should get the part. Moran is not
reticent about her preferences, She tells Berlinger that if
they go with one actor over another for the part of the
strip-bar manager, "You'll be working much harder to get the
performance you want."
As the morning proceeds, it becomes clear that for nearly
every role, Moran, Yoshimura and Simon are in agreement, while
Berlinger has a different preference. But the three "Homicide"
regulars don't give in. No amount of diplomacy -- and there isn't
much going on here -- hides the fact that Berlinger isn't being
given much of a say.
"Hey," he finally says to Moran, "it's your show. I'm just along
for the ride."
Which is exactly the way Moran sees it, too.
"I know the show better than he does. I know what the writers
want, and that's who I feel we have to serve. You can't let
them [the guest directors] make a mistake."
She's particularly pleased about Christy getting the part of the
junkie. He was so good, Yoshimura regretted wasting him in a
relatively small part. "He was like a diamond falling out of the
ceiling," Moran says.
The cast for Episode 21 is set. Day 7 now can be devoted to
paperwork, making sure all union rules are followed.
Nothing left to do now except wait for an early peek at next
week's episode, and take a moment or two to savor what Moran
has accomplished, not simply for Episode 21 but in her entire
accidental career.
"I wanted everything," she says. "I wanted the relationship. I
wanted the kids. I wanted the house, and I wanted the career,
and I wanted it in Baltimore, not L.A."
The funny thing is, she got it all. Undreamed dreams do come
true.
Originally published on 3/21/1999